The Bloodlust Affair
by Nyala Necheyev
Summary: Two agents from UNCLE, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, show up in Los Angeles to solve a serial murder case, in which the victims were drained of almost all their blood. But how could things have turned out so horribly? Slight Buffy X-over.
1. Vashta Nerada

**Act One - Vashta Nerada ****  
**

The dimly lit bar was filled with crazy crowds and loud, thumping music that night. Several people, some sober, some drunk, but mostly drunk, danced on the checker-tiled floor to the lively tune of the Beatles' "Obladi Oblada" while others hung around the sidelines, talking and laughing with other pining single adults.

A young, brown-skinned beauty sat alone at a small round table, nursing her Russian White Virgin and eying two young men talking together only a couple of tables away with a gleam of curiosity in her hungry brown eyes. One was reserved and dressed in an appropriately nice black jacket and jeans. His straw colored hair was cut short and brushed neatly to one side of his calm, yet firm countenance. The other was slightly less business-like, dressed in a white shirt and brown jeans, his dark hair and womanizing brown eyes the object of several females' affections. After a few moments' discussion, the dark-haired one caught sight of the dark woman and, excusing himself, made his way over to speak with her.

"Hi," he said, flashing her a winning smile - for most women, anyway, thought the woman, "My name's Napoleon. Is this seat taken?"

The woman looked over at the vacant seat beside her, as though only just beginning to notice it. Smiling back up at the stranger, she replied smoothly.

"This seat is never taken," she explained in a smooth Arabian accent, "Too many people are afraid that I might bite."

Napoleon laughed softly in appreciation and sat down.

"I'm not afraid," he told her confidently, "So, what's your name, if I may be so bold?"

"Mahasin," the lady answered, tossing her long black hair frivolously, "Mahasin al-Dabhir."

Napoleon rolled the name over in his mind contemplatively, his brandy-colored eyes sparkling. A regular womanizer, this one, Mahasin thought, the fool.

"Beautiful name," he told her at length, "So, Lady al-Dabhir," He rolled the 'r' appropriately, "What brings you to the United States, if I may ask?"

"Ah, business, I suppose," Mahasin answered him languorously, "Hope. Opportunity. All the lies you hear in the third world countries. You know."

"Ah," Napoleon nodded sagely, "Well, Mahasin, mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Mahasin's dark eyes sparkled as she raised one perfect eyebrow. "You already have."

Napoleon laughed. "Well, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you_ these_ questions. You see, I've heard that there's been a lot of murders connected to this place. Have you?"

Mahasin frowned slightly. "No," she replied, then said, offering Napoleon one smooth-skinned hand, "But...If you come outside, I might share with you a little secret."

"Hm?"

Napoleon took the hand in his. It was perfect, like the rest of her. Long, delicate fingers, gracefully curving around each of his own, each nail tipped with a beautiful art design of pale blue lotuses on a black background. The rest of her wore a silky, form-fitting black dress and tall high heels, a classic in places like this.

"I think that would be a great idea," Napoleon answered confidently, then stood with Mahasin, leading the beautiful creature outside through the back door into the tight alley-way between two buildings under a handful of stars, only two garbage dumpsters and a stray cat to keep them company.

"So, where's this secret you were going to share with me?" Napoleon asked her, looking into her mysterious dark face.

Mahasin looked up into his, and smiled, running a hand along the seam of his shirt's shoulder.

That smile suddenly became filled with fangs, and as her face contorted into a horrible, demonic representation of what it should have been, Napoleon backed up in reflex, slamming against the brick wall of the bar much to his chagrin.

"There it is," Mahasin grinned just before she tackled the secret agent, pulled aside his head, and dug into his enticingly blood-filled Human neck.

Five minutes later, Mahasin raised her head and let the unconscious body drop to the ground, anemic and unaware. The vampire then turned hungrily toward the bar's back door and, which a shake of her head, transformed back into a guileless, enticing young female before she entered again. She still had one other threat to attend to before her bloody little kingdom would be safe again.

Illya Kuryakin took another dismal sip of his vodka as the thumping climax of "Wild Thing" assaulted his eardrums. How the Russian hated these places; so full of idiots and perverts who seemed to thing that there was no hope for them without a significant "other" in their lives. Kind of like his partner, Napoleon Solo, only Napoleon wasn't always looking to get married...

Where was Solo anyway? Looking curiously around the room, Illya could only see the smoke-clouded faces of intoxicated, lovesick strangers. No Napoleon.

"You look lonely."

Illya looked up curiously to see the source of the silky-smooth, beautifully lilted voice. She was truly a fine specimen of womanhood, dark-skinned, tall, slender, and almost amazonian in her fiercely elegant manner. Her eyes though...they were something else. One could get drawn into those eyes, loose all sense of time and place. Those eyes could force one to their knees in reverence, or under the bedcovers in a false illusion of being in love...if one was weak enough. Illya wasn't.

"I'm not," he responded simply.

"A pity, that," Mahasin commented, sitting down in the chair beside him, "By the way, I saw you talking with your friend earlier. Where is he now?"

Illya frowned suspiciously at her. "As a matter of fact, I don't know," he told her confessionally, "Have you seen him lately?"

Dumb question, he thought, a minute too late. _Shto bardachnaya dyela..._

Mahasin shrugged instead.

"I believe he has left - on his way to the Bronze, or some such. I believe he said something about a 'lead'. Would you like me to take you there?"

Illya thought for a moment. It was typical of Napoleon; going of and leaving him here alone with all the girls like this.

"Yes, please," the Russian replied, and stood, all business as the Arabian woman led him out of the uncomfortable bar atmosphere.

A few minutes later, Mahasin had led the man outside of the good part of Los Angeles and into the bad, where no one would - or could - ever care if they heard his cry as she fed.

"The Bronze is just down there," she pointed. But as Illya moved in that direction, Mahasin caught his sleeve and pulled him back gently.

"Not so fast," she told him softly, "I want you to give me something in return.

"Look," Illya said frankly, "It's not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but -"

His words leapt into his throat as Mahasin's face contorted, showing the true demon behind the mask. He tried to back away, but Mahasin only pulled him forward with a snarl, grabbing his blond scalp and pulling it back, thirstily moving in for the kill. However. she paused just before digging in, and that was all the time Illya needed to shove her back, draw his gun, and fire on her.

Much to his horror, she just kept coming, with a small chuckle as she drew nearer.

"Very good," she praised him cruelly, grabbing his neck and raising him slightly off the ground with her more-than-human strength, "Very good! Your partner didn't give out have as much a struggle, and I like a little fight for my victims. It makes them taste better in the end.

"However," she continued, bringing him closer, the smell of fast-moving blood and adrenalin almost too much to resist, "You have not only earned my pleasure, but also my respect. Thus I am offering you a way out of death.

"Drink my blood, as I drink yours," she ordered the Russian agent, who was growing weaker every second, "Then you will join my ranks as a vampire, and together we will hunt and live, as true life was meant to do."

The Russian did not respond, his eyes rolling back into his head as he slipped into unconsciousness from lack of oxygen.

"Oh, to daylight with it!" Mahasin hissed as she finally dug in with her fangs, releasing Illya's hold for a better grip on the shoulders. The young foreigner tried to cry out for help, but all he could manage was a slight, gasping choke as he felt Mahasin's fangs dig deeper into his neck.

"Come on," she growled in frustration, "Drink!"

Ripping open her own wrist, Mahasin thrust the bloody limb up against Illya's lips, forcing the Russian to complete the transaction necessary for the transformation from human into vampire. Illya gagged on the cold red fluid, but swallowed helplessly, though in disgust, as he felt himself begin to die.

A while later, Illya Kuryakin slumped into the vampire's arms, pale blue eyes clouded in death as she let the Human corpse fall to the ground limply. A small trickle of blood ran out of his mouth and splattered his face and clothing. Wiping it all away very careful, Mahasin smiled coldly at the dead body.

"See you tomorrow night, love," she whispered to him before melting away back into the night.

The funeral the day after was deceptively normal. Standing there by the coffin, Napoleon tried to remember what all had happened that night, but found that he could not. All he could recall was that Mahasin had been about to kiss him or something when he had been attacked and lost consciousness. The doctor had said it looked like an ice pick or a barbecue fork, just like the wounds on the necks of the victims and suffered mild anemia.

Too bad it hadn't been 'mild' for the late Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon thought sadly. The two agents had been close friends ever since being partnered in U.N.C.L.E. - United Network Command for Law Enforcement - by Station One leader Mr. Alexander Waverly, both being in Department Two and having similar talents. However, Illya had been more of the brooding bookworm while Napoleon had been the womanizing adventurer. They had often teased each other about their differences, and all too often given each other the heebie-jeebies, like when Napoleon had enter the control room and found Illya batting a swinging, spiked brick in the general direction of the other agent's agent.

Nevertheless, they had always remained good friends.

Napoleon couldn't help but feel that Illya's death had been entirely his fault. If he hadn't gone on with that woman, Mahasin, then perhaps Illya wouldn't have gone out looking for him and left himself open for attack.

As the American passed by the Russian's coffin on his way back to his car, following the rest of the small turnout for Illya's funeral, Napoleon Solo found that he didn't have anything left to say to the dead body. Illya would have been able to quote the words right out of his mouth without a second thought.

That night, Mahasin Al-Dabhir stood waiting patiently for her newest subject to rise. The moonlight shone eerily down upon a vacant cemetery, causing the sequins on her bright red dress to shimmer like flowing blood as the slight, chilling breeze brushed at the long, ankle-length skirt, also playing with her long black hair, which she had allowed to fall free. Her earrings were ornamented by golden chains of sparkling, priceless rubies, also reminiscent of a vampire's life-long yearning.

Suddenly, a pale white hand burst out of the earth above Illya's grave, groping about for a handhold in the freshly-laid soil. Mahasin made no move to help as the young Russian burrowed out of the dirt and scrambled onto the green lawn beside his own gravesite and stood, not breathing, but eyes as bright as ever as he took in his somber surroundings.

Only when his eyes landed on the beautiful Arab that she spoke, saying, "How do you feel, my brother?"

"Thirsty," Illya replied, a bit confused as to his sudden yearning, "What did you do to me?"

"I gave you the greatest gift in the world," Mahasin replied elegantly, "Strength. Speed. Agility. Power. Immortality, and life after death."

"I resisted..." Illya remembered, as though it had all been just a dream.

Mahasin smiled queenly and gave a slight shrug. "You were only Human," she told him honestly, "But now you are more. Now you are one of us."

"'Us'?" Illya asked, his eyes gleaming uncharacteristically.

'Later, I will introduce you to our brethren in the -" she laughed softly, "'City of Angels'. But for now," she said taking his hand and leading him gently back towards the city, "Let us go have a drink."


	2. Friends or Enemies?

**Act Two - Friends or Enemies?**

That morning, Napoleon Solo entered the UNCLE Headquarters through the secret door in Del Floria's Tailor Shop to find that the rate of murders had skyrocketed through the roof in his absence.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said incredulously as Waverly presented him with yet another stack of morbid murder files, all having been committed last night, "How can one person kill seven plus people in one night without anyone noticing or catching on?"

Waverly just shook his head slightly, the older man being just as confused as the younger.

"It escapes me," he replied to the younger agent, "But it's your job to find out. Now, here is another case from here recently that I thought might interest you."

A single case file hit the tabletop before Agent Solo.

"What's this?" he asked curiously, then opened the file and began to skim through it.

"September fifteenth, 1959...That was last night," Napoleon noted dubiously, "Charge, vandalism...oh, god," he said, his eyes widening slightly in shock that a Human being would do such a thing, standing and shutting the folder, letting it drop back down to the table.

"Somebody dug up Illya's grave?!" He asked in disbelief.

"Indeed they did," Waverly confirmed gravely, "Which is why you're going back to Los Angeles post-haste. I have a feeling that we've barely scratched the surface on what goes on in LA these nights."

"But, sir, why -"

"That will be all, Mr. Solo," Waverly interrupted the young man sternly, "Your plane leaves in two hours."

"Yes, sir," Napoleon replied, and turned and left the office, leaving the elderly director alone in the room.

Waverly sat down in his seat and pondered the possibilities for a moment. As every man of his former profession knew, there were more than just Humans skulking around the planet, certain things that could make your blood run cold, quite literally.

Perhaps this wasn't the case. Perhaps he was just being an apprehensive old man.

But maybe...

Alexander Waverly got up quickly and hurried out into the corridor.

"Mr. Solo!"

Napoleon had been about to turn the corner of the long hallway when Mr. Waverly called him. The dark-haired agent stopped and turned curiously, then hurried back down the corridor.

"Yes, sir?"

"Here," said Mr. Waverly, "Take these. you might need them."

The old man handed Solo two very odd things - a sharpened piece of wood and a small, silver cross necklace that looked like it had belonged to a young girl. It had been a Slayer's, Waverly remembered, Reba's, but since she had died at least thirty years ago...

Napoleon looked confused for a moment, but accepted the offering. "Thank you, sir," he said out of habit, then politely took his leave of the director.

---

That night, Napoleon was at the Hearts and Headaches Singles' Bar once again, this time making a point not to look at the ladies. All he focused his mind to was watching the crowd, seeing how many went out, and how many came back in.

Taking a look outside through the front window, he ruled out that avenue immediately. Too many people were on the streets now, even at this hour. Besides, all one had to do was look through the window to catch the killer in action.

That left the back door. Seeing a giddy, drunken couple stumble through there, Napoleon followed a few minutes after, hoping that he wouldn't seem to the other patrons as a busybody.

Opening the door, Napoleon stepped out into the chilly night air and looked down both ways of the small alley which ran between the two rows of shops and buildings. To the left - Nothing. To the right...

Two men were holding prisoner the couple Napoleon had just seen leave the building. They looked practically identical, both possessing black hair and gray eyes, along with very pale skin, as though they had never seen the sunlight.

"Hey!" Napoleon called at them with a slight frown.

One of them, the one holding the man, who had just fallen into a drunken sleep, looked up at the intruding agent with mere annoyance.

"Aww, what do you want?" he demanded, "Get lost."

Napoleon drew a gun from his jacket holster and aimed it at his twin brother. "Let them go."

"He said, 'Get lost', pal," growled the other one, then looked at the young woman he was holding. He grinned and ran his tongue across his teeth, and suddenly the young woman screamed bloody murder.

Both men's faces had changed into a warped, shadowy, ridged version of the original visage. Napoleon quickly fired at the one to the left, who recoiled and laughed, then bared his fangs and dug into his victim's neon-tanned neck. The woman convulsed, then slumped against her attacker as, to Napoleon's disgust, the creature drank her blood out of her body. The other did the same thing to the man.

Firing another couple of shots at them, Napoleon Solo ran at the one holding the woman to beat the snot out of him. The one drinking the male threw the unconscious body at him, which threw the UNCLE agent off into the wall, where the other creature grabbed his throat and laughed, his iron-tinted breath making Napoleon's nose wrinkle.

Suddenly, Napoleon heard a familiar voice shout out.

"Sax! Norman! Let it go!"

Sax and Norman turned to the voice in almost perfect unision, then dropped their would-be victim and stood at attention as a beautiful, dark woman wearing a midnight-blue gown approached the scene.

Mahasin al-Dabhir smiled gracefully as she saw who her minions had been attacking.

"Mr. Solo," she recognized him, "What brings you to my dirty little kingdom?"

"Oh, the usual," Napoleon answered, "Business, opportunity, serial murders...You know."

"Yes, I do, don't I?" Mahasin replied pleasantly, as though they were merely having tea together, "Well, good to see you back. I knew you'd come."

Napoleon glared at her with simmering hatred in his brown eyes. "You killed Illya, didn't you?"

"Oh, well," Mahasin shrugged dismissively, "Tell me, Solo...how can you kill someone if they're already dead?"

Napoleon frowned in confusion. Was she trying to tell him something, or just trying to confuse him while playing the ultra-bad girl?

Just then, she beckoned to someone in the shadows, and Illya himself stepped towards her, smiling ever so slightly. Napoleon's eyebrows shot up in surprise, then lowered as he realized what must happened.

"This one's mine, Mahasin," the Russian told his new leader.

"And you shall have him," replied the lady, "I've fed enough already."

"Illya?" Solo asked cautiously...he had to make sure before making his report to Waverly.

"Hello, Napoleon," Illya answered. There was something new in his voice, a hint of murderous power and care-free emotions that hadn't been present in the mind of the Kuryakin Napoleon knew.

"I'd buy you a drink," Illya continued, walking past Mahasin toward Napoleon, who was being held stationary by the twins, "But I'm afraid you're the one paying tonight."

With those words, Illya's face took on a horrible, dark transition, after which the Russian grinned, displaying sharp, pointed fangs. Napoleon struggled in alarm, but Sax and Norman merely threw him at Kuryakin at a nod from Mahasin. Kuryakin caught Napoleon by the throat, and moved to make the fatal bite.

Suddenly a fist flew into Illya's face, followed by a chop to his wrist as Napoleon fought free and backed away from the four monsters, grabbing his gun from the pavement where Sax had tossed it. Firing twice at Illya's chest, Napoleon turned tail and ran for his life.

Acting quicker than any human could, Illya ran after him and caught him, jumping on top of him with a flying leap. Napoleon's head hit the pavement and stunned him for a moment, which gave Illya the time he needed to move in for the kill.

Suddenly the Russian let out an animalistic yowl of pain and leapt back, cradling a sizzling hand with his other arm. Confused, Napoleon looked at the wounded appendage - there was a small, cross-shaped brand on it, exactly the same shape as the pendant Napoleon wore around his neck. As Illya cursed in his native tongue, Napoleon wondered how it was possible for a small silver object to actually brand someone.

Illya then made a second attempt at Napoleon's life, flying at him and ripping off the pendant, breaking the delicate silver chain and snatching the gun, tossing it to Sax, who caught it and unloaded it.

"You never wore jewelry before, Napoleon," he remarked angrily.

"It's a new trend," Napoleon replied sarcastically, then on a different note - "What have they done to you, Illya?"

Ignoring his friend's question, Illya Kuryakin - or what was left of him - snarled vengefully and moved toward Napoleon's throat. As his fangs pierced Solo's jugular, Illya didn't see as Napoleon did the only thing left to do.

Illya jerked backwards with a small gasp of pain as his enemy drove Waverly's stake into his abdomen. Staggering into the wall behind him, the Russian looked at Napoleon in something akin to mild disbelief, his face now having transformed back into the human shape Napoleon knew so well. Removing the stake and driving it into the ground with inhuman force, Illya glared at his former friend, unable to rise and attack.

Quickly turning around and running into the shadows, Napoleon was unable to see the rest of the scene.

Sax and Norman started to run after the Human, only stopped by a hand raised by a stony-faced Mahasin al-Dabhir, who then turned to her new favorite, who stood weakly.

"I'm fine," Illya told her, leaning against the wall for support as the wound healed unusually quickly, "But the next time I see him, I will kill him. I swear it."


End file.
